LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story borne From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen. sung-"O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" ST. AGNES Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was! The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no-already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. V. At length burst in the argent revelry, The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay As she had heard old dames full many times declare. VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:. And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain, VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, For Madeline. Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss-in sooth such things have been. He ventures in let no buzz'd whisper tell: XI. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, The sound of merriment and chorus bland: Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! |